A little before nine his phone gave a short chime to tell him that he had a text message. Mr. Webster. Please come to my apartment at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Thank you. Nina Gerstman. So she was there. He realized at that moment that he would find it far easier to talk to Prock.
HE WOKE EARLY. By eight he had showered, shaved and dressed in a dark navy suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. Today was a day to look as grave as possible. As he left the room he looked at himself in the mirror. Was that the face he deserved? It looked honest enough to him, but he could hardly judge. His eyes were brown and candid, with specks of green and black; his hair, silver for years now and cropped short, suggested serious, responsible. There were enough flaws in his face to make it somehow convincing: a short scar on his chin where his beard didn’t grow, the nose not quite straight. He was plausible, certainly. But it was one thing to convince people that you were trustworthy, and quite another to deserve their trust.
At nine he stood outside Nina’s building and rang the doorbell for Flat 12. The sky was still dull. While he waited he looked through the glass doors into the entrance hall, cupping his hands around his eyes to keep out the light. Stone stairs, an art nouveau balustrade, an intricate tiled floor, marble lining the walls up to shoulder height. A woman’s voice asked him who he was and buzzed him in. An old lift in its iron cage took him up to the fourth floor and as he pulled the concertina gate back Nina was waiting for him.
She wasn’t what he had expected. His research had discovered that she was an academic, a physicist who lectured at Humboldt University, and he had pictured her as small and somehow scientific—glasses perhaps, mousy hair and practical clothes. In fact she was tall, almost his height, and dark, her eyes black and childishly full in a narrow face. She stood with her legs slightly apart, her calves full, her feet turned out like a dancer, and she wore black: a black skirt, black stockings and shoes, a black cardigan over a gray blouse. Webster realized that he hadn’t been with someone in mourning since his grandfather had died ten years earlier.
“Frau Gerstman.” He found himself giving a slight bow of the head.
“Mr. Webster.”
“Thank you for seeing me. I hope I’m not intruding.”
Nina said nothing but gestured for him to follow her into the apartment. They walked down a long corridor with doors on either side, all closed. The floor was golden parquetry, and on the walls hung a series of color photographs of the modern buildings of Berlin: the Neue Nationalgalerie, the revived Reichstag, several buildings that Webster didn’t recognize. They were good, and he wondered whether Nina had taken them. Or Gerstman.
The corridor opened into a bright sitting room at the far end of the apartment with large windows on two sides. Here there were no photographs but many paintings, abstracts and portraits, hung in clusters.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Webster?” asked Nina. Her voice was low and dry. Webster thanked her, but no, he was fine. She sat down, quite upright at the front of a deep sofa, and Webster sat opposite in an armchair. On the glass table between them were sales catalogues for auctions of modern art in London and Paris. His chair was low and he struggled to find an attitude that seemed appropriate.
Nina looked at Webster. I wonder what she sees, he thought. In the light her face was pale but for the skin under her eyes, which was a deep purple gray.
“Thank you for seeing me. I’m grateful,” he said.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I wanted to say first how… how sorry I was to hear your news.” The words sounded thin and brittle as he said them.
“Thank you.”
“I heard it from your husband’s partner. He called me. He told me that…” He hesitated. “He suggested that my meeting with Dmitry might have brought about his death.”
Nina said nothing.
“It wasn’t my intention to cause anybody harm.”
Again, Nina didn’t reply, but looked at him steadily all the while. She was composed; Webster felt wholly uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell whether she was resigned or calmly furious. Eventually she said, “I don’t know why he died, Mr. Webster. I would like the Hungarians to tell me but I think they will not.” She paused. “Why do you think he died?”
“In a sense I barely knew him. I’m probably the last person who should say.” Webster shifted his position.
“But what do you think?”
“I have a sense that he was murdered.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of what I hear from Hungary. Because it was a very strange way to… to end it. Because the Hungarians seem to have been quick to make up their minds.”
“I have the same sense. But I would like to know.”
“So would I.”
Nina had her hands clasped in her lap. She loosened them and scratched her forearm lightly.
“That is what I want to know from you, Mr. Webster. Why you want to know. In a way this is not your business. You met Dmitry once. You did not know him.”
Webster had anticipated this. He had an answer prepared, but now it hardly seemed adequate. As he began, a mobile phone began to buzz across a table in the corner of the room.
“Excuse me.” Nina stood and went to pick it up. “Gerstman.” She walked into the corridor, speaking softly. Webster could still make out what she was saying. The person on the other end of the call talked more than she did. “Ja,” he heard her say. “Nein, nicht jetzt. Ich bin nicht allein. Ja.” A long pause. “Das geht Sie nichts an. Ich wollte ihn sehen.” Webster’s German was still good enough to make some of this out. That’s not for you to say. I wanted to see him. “Ja, mir geht es gut. Morgen vielleicht. Oder Mittwoch. Ja. Auf Wiedersehen. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Nina came back into the room and sat down, putting the phone on the glass table in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Just a friend.”
“You must tell me if you’d like me to go.”
“No, it’s OK.”
“Thank you.” Webster chanced what he hoped was a sympathetic smile; Nina did not return it. Her face was hard to read. It was stony, set, but not in anger; there was something else there. He tried again. “You asked me why I’m still interested. I’d like to stop the man responsible.”
Nina nodded. “And why are you here?”
He had anticipated this too. “I’m here because… I’m here to say sorry, for anything I might have done.”
“In my work, Mr. Webster, it is understood that you cannot see a thing without changing it. It is impossible to simply be an observer. So you have played a part, whatever it might be.”
“That’s true.”
“I will be open with you. I am not interested in what you did. Dmitry was never free of Russia. It followed him here. I do not think you brought it. He tried to stop it. He took out insurance. He was very careful. My only interest, all I want to do…” For the first time she looked down at her hands. “All I want is to know how he died.” Tears formed in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and sat for a moment looking away from Webster, out of the window to the rooftops beyond. She took a deep breath and went on. “I do not know whether they are paid to stop investigating, or whether they do not care to. It must be a… how do you say it… it must be annoying to have a dead Russian from Berlin in your city.” She paused for a moment and looked at him. “But it is not logical. I know he did not send me that e-mail. I know it.” She leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands and sat gently shaking her head.
Webster watched her. After some time she looked up at him.
“Frau Gerstman,” he said, “I have friends in Budapest who tell me what is happening with the investigation. I’m happy to share that information with you.” She looked up, and for the first time her eyes, red with tears, looked curious. “Very happy.”
“Thank you.”
With a small nod he indicated that he would keep his word. They sat in silence.
“What did
you mean by insurance?” said Webster at last.
“I’m sorry?”
“You mentioned insurance earlier. That Dmitry had taken out insurance.”
“I did not know I said that.”
Webster decided not to push it. Instead he asked her whether she knew Richard Lock.
“Richard? Yes, of course. He sent me some flowers. Why?”
“He still works with Konstantin Malin. I worry that if Dmitry was in danger he may be too.” He had tried this line with Nina’s husband, and as he said it he felt a pang of conscience; back then he hadn’t wholly meant it.
“If he still works for Malin he will be fine.”
“What sort of a man is Lock?”
“A normal man. Dmitry liked him. Mr. Webster, I prefer not to…” The doorbell rang. Nina looked puzzled for a moment and then she seemed to gather herself, as if preparing for an encounter she didn’t relish. “Excuse me.”
Webster stood as she left the room to open the front door. He heard muffled, urgent exchanges in German, followed by a man’s footsteps, heavy and stark on the wood. The man kept talking in a high voice. Webster caught a few words: “… zuerst die Russen und jetzt die Engländer. Zumindest ist er nicht eingebrochen.” First the Russians, now the English. At least he didn’t break in. He was still standing when a short, florid man, with a twisted mustache and all but bald, stomped into the room muttering, “Wo ist er? Wo ist er?” Seeing Webster he stopped, fixed him with a stare and told him to leave. “Get out. Go on. Leave.”
Nina, right behind him, took his arm and tried to usher him back out of the room, saying something in German that Webster couldn’t make out. The man replied in firm, slightly patronizing tones—“Hat er Dich auch bedroht? Dann ist es nur eine Frage der Zeit”—and she let go of his arm. Has he threatened you as well? Then it’s only a matter of time.
“Do you know who I am?” he said to Webster.
“I think so, yes.” Webster had seen him with Gerstman on his first visit to Berlin. He was wearing a tweed suit. His accent was almost grotesquely rich.
“I am Heinrich Prock, Herr Webster. Partner of Herr Gerstman, who is now dead. Perhaps, Herr Webster, when I called you I did not make myself clear. Hm? We want this out of our lives. Out.” Prock was still emphatic, but in person there was something ineffectual about him, something ridiculous, like a well-groomed little dog with a substantial bark. It occurred to Webster that had he spoken to Prock in person that Sunday in the park he might not have taken him so seriously. “… forever.” He went on. “I do not know who you are working for, or what you want. I do not care. What I care about, Herr Webster, is that this woman is left alone. She has been bothered enough. But you come here, to the flat of a widow, not a week after her husband died, to search for answers of your own. You are no different from the others. Now I would like you to leave before I call the police. Go now, please.” He pointed to the door, an unnecessary gesture.
Nina turned to him and said something in a low voice. Prock responded in an urgent hiss. “Wann kamen die Anrufe? Vor zehn Tagen? Und dann taucht er auf? Woher weißt Du, dass er nicht für sie arbeitet?” When were the calls? Ten days ago? And then he shows up. How do you know he isn’t working for them?
Webster looked at Nina, who stood with her arms crossed beside Prock. She gave a regretful nod, which seemed to say that she would rather this had ended differently, but that he should go.
Walking past Prock he stopped in front of Nina and said, “Thank you. If I hear anything from Budapest I’ll let you know.” She nodded again and he left. As he walked away he could feel Prock’s indignation behind him bursting to be given vent.
AFTER BERLIN Webster spent a day in Paris with a hearty Onder, who had seen Lock and had plenty to report, and then flew back to London for a meeting with Tourna the next day, Friday. Despite himself he could feel the case beginning to pull at him again, teasing ideas out of him, leading him on from one place to the next. Firing his imagination. The good ones did this; they wouldn’t leave you alone. Nina knew something, he was sure of it—sure too that she would part with it if she thought it would truly hurt Malin. He wondered how much of him wanted to find justice for Nina, and how much of him simply had to know.
When he got off the plane from Paris he found a voice-mail message waiting for him from Alan Knight. He had called from his Russian phone, which was unusual.
“Ben, this is Alan. It’s Thursday. Someone’s probably listening but I’m past caring. If they hear this maybe they’ll believe me.” He was quiet and hoarse, as if he was losing his voice. “Just to say we won’t be working together again, Ben. Sorry about that. But life here’s gotten a bit difficult. Seems I can’t get into the country without spending half a day being asked questions about my clients. Twice it’s happened now. I’ve been advised not to work for Westerners anymore, so that’s that. Not much I can do about it. I wish there was. Wish I could do something about the tax police raiding my office as well, but no doubt that’ll be cleared up soon, eh? These things usually are.” There was a long pause. He thought the message had come to an end. “So if you’re in Tyumen don’t look me up, Ben, all right? If it’s all the same to you. Best leave me alone for a bit. Best leave well enough alone.”
He had never heard Knight sound like that. He had complained before about the attention he was given by the security services, about his calls being overheard, but Webster had always assumed that whatever arrangement he had made for himself in Russia was stable. He’d been doing it for so long. He was one of them.
That evening Webster tried to write a progress report for Tourna, and rather to his surprise there was a lot to say. He left out all mention of Inessa. But Knight continued to prey on his mind. He told himself that any one of Alan’s jobs could be behind this, that there was no reason to think that his problems had anything to do with Malin, but every instinct in him cried otherwise.
AT TEN ON FRIDAY MORNING Hammer and Webster sat in the boardroom at Ikertu. Hammer had not run in. This was unusual and Webster wondered what it meant.
“Is he the sort to be late?” said Hammer.
“He was a day late last time.”
“I read the report. You’ve been busier than you think.”
“Yes, that occurred to me too.”
“How was Onder?”
“Enjoying himself.”
“You going to tell me about Berlin?”
“It was good. You were right.”
“I didn’t want you to go.”
“No, I mean about the whole thing. I feel better. I met my accuser, which helped. He burst in and rescued Mrs. Gerstman from me. He was a bit of a buffoon.”
“Good for him.”
“He still doesn’t like me very much, but he said something interesting.”
Hammer waited for him to go on.
“How’s your German?” said Webster.
“Minimal.”
“Mine isn’t what it was, but he said something that caught my ear and clearly wasn’t meant to. I think he said, ‘First the Russians, now the English. At least he didn’t break in.’ And then ‘Has he threatened you as well? It’s only a matter of time.’”
“Which means?”
“Someone thinks she knows something. It sounds as if her flat was broken into and they think it was Russians. Or perhaps Gerstman’s office. Then as he was ordering me out he said something about calls she’d had in the last ten days. I didn’t get a chance to ask her. I was more or less marched off the premises.”
“Could you call her?”
“Perhaps. I’ve promised her news from Hungary, if I get any. I don’t think she likes me either, but she doesn’t seem to hate me.”
The phone on the boardroom table rang. Mr. Tourna was in reception. Webster collected him and introduced him to Hammer, who looked skinny and pale beside him. Tourna, pristine in a light tweed jacket, baby-blue cashmere sweater and white shirt, looked as ostentatiously healthy as he had on his yacht.
Hammer was
always delighted to meet a rogue and took on most of the small talk; Tourna, like most clients, was charmed. Hammer had a conman’s talent for finding a person’s passion and appearing to know all about it, and for five minutes he quizzed Tourna about boats, and sailing, and the relative merits of marinas throughout the Mediterranean and beyond.
“No, only sail, Mr. Hammer, only sail. I may look vulgar but I despise those floating brothels with their helicopter pads and their swimming pools. You can swim in the sea, no, if you want to swim? Ridiculous. Let me tell you, Mr. Hammer, I met a man once in Shanghai. We had been discussing some business. He asked me to come aboard his yacht. You have a yacht in Shanghai I ask, and yes, he says, in the harbor. The most beautiful yacht you will see. Well, there are many ships in Shanghai harbor but not so many yachts, I think. So I go. And there in the harbor is this monstrous big shining cream office block—with a helicopter on it, naturally. And we go on board and there are gold taps and beds in the shape of seashells. All very tasteful. And I ask my friend, where do you go? And he doesn’t understand. I say, where do you take her—because, for the life of me, I cannot think where I would want to sail near Shanghai. And he looks at me for a moment, still not understanding, and then he laughs, and he says, oh no, there’s no engine. You can’t go anywhere in it. The engine room is empty.” Tourna bellowed out a laugh. “It’s probably still there now!” Hammer laughed too, and Webster gave what he hoped was an enthusiastic smile. “So, gentlemen,” said Tourna, his face taking on the look of urgency that Webster had seen in Datça, “how are you getting on?”
They sat at the table. Webster handed out copies of the agenda and his report. Tourna took a minute to scan each document, then set them carefully to one side and looked Webster square in the eye.
The Silent Oligarch Page 16
